“I do things all the time. From six to ten, there I am, doing things,” you said, and it was with this gotcha look, like that’d show me, like this deserved a reaction.

I said nothing.

I said nothing because saying something these days means retaliation, perhaps especially if it’s true. Because you were almost right, right? You sleep in till seven and soon as I get home from work there’s an hour or so of you having a break, painting miniatures and smoking. Because if I want a break, “all you have to do is ask!”

Also maybe to save it.

Sometimes we’re good, we’re really really good. Sometimes we’re not.

Right now is the second kind of sometimes. I’m not sure we’ll survive it, this time.

What I didn’t say was–oh, I”m sorry, six to ten, that’s your shift? Because I had no idea.

Do you?

Do you have any idea what my shift is? Do you realize mine does not end, that this does not end, that in realistic terms being a parent is a constant, that the baby is up all night and I am with him, that I go to work and I am working, that I come home and I am giving you your break, that in the morning when you are sleeping in I am parenting?

I do not sleep even half as much as you, and when I act like I have to schedule my showers in advance you get offended I’d suggest that’s the case.

How dare you.

I handed him to you this morning so I could take my meds brush my teeth and get coffee. I have done this one handed lately, and I wanted the luxory of not. On the way down you said, “Hey Olly, when you’re dressed and ready to go can you just take him down?”

I misunderstood. I’d been up all night. “I am not dressed and ready to go,” I said.

Immediately the indignation was strong. You, the tortured hero, had been wronged.

fuck